


Let's Stay Together

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Surfer Dude (2008), True Detective
Genre: Anal Sex, Beaches, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gentle Sex, M/M, Marijuana, Nightmares, Romance, bottom!Marty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9264731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: An AU in which Marty and Rust get a house on the beach, turn into hippies, and live happily ever after.(Inspired by the 2008 film Surfer Dude, and by the Pulp Fiction soundtrack)





	

**Author's Note:**

> it seems I cannot help but write fics, even when in intense physical pain... the lure of the muse is too strong......  
> expect grammatical errors, as this has not been Beta read, and I am very tired~~ hope you enjoy!!!

They found a secluded corner of Malibu, a tiny patch of beach tucked away from the tourists and the jocks that just wanted to pick up girls. Their house was encrusted with salt, falling down in places; they were constantly fixing it, with calloused hands that were practiced and strong, but it never entered either Rust or Marty’s mind to leave. It seemed they’d been there for longer than they bothered to remember, and everything but the sea had ceased to matter. They still had nightmares, but memories didn’t hurt like they used to.

Rust’s grey hair became sun-bleached, made a shimmering blonde in the seemingly perpetual heat. He got rid of his moustache, kept his face clear like he needed the space to breathe, but he grew his hair out and wore it back in a ponytail, secured with a string of old leather. Marty shaved his head, and grew a white-flecked beard. He wore patterned bandanas, much to the amusement of Rust, who felt the need to tease him about it. They bickered about things like that, daily, and it was perfect.

They found their peace.

Rust very nearly stopped wearing clothes altogether. His body was lean, slender, and a deep Texan brown; he wasn’t as muscular as he’d been when Marty had met him, but he stayed in shape through hard work and surfing. It was almost hilarious, seeing a man as enigmatic and highly-strung as Rust embrace the surfer’s life as if he’d been born into it. He still talked about the purpose of living and about the meaning of humanity and all that shit, but now it was with the easy candour of a man who loved life.

Marty felt blessed to be part of the reason Rust felt that way.

 

***

 

“You know, man,” Rust drawled, “I think I was wrong.”

“About what?” Marty held his hand out for the blunt they were sharing. Rust passed it over, his movements slow.

Rust laughed as if he knew some great secret, and lay down on the sand, his back curving enticingly. Beside him sat his surfboard, one that he had made himself with the help of an old fucking zen master they’d found wandering the beaches in threadbare hippie clothes. Marty had a surfboard, but he didn’t use his as much as Rust did; he preferred swimming, and lazing around. Weed tended to make him dopey like that, and they smoked a lot of it these days. It was kind of funny, sometimes; god, they were nearly sixty years old. Here they were living like teenagers.

“I was wrong,” Rust lifted his hands up into the air, long fingers making shapes against the blue sky, “’bout _everythin’,_ man.”

Marty grinned, watching the way Rust’s hands moved, watching light play across skin like poetry. “Well shit, Rust, I could’a told you that for nothin’.”

Rust laughed again. Rust was always laughing nowadays.

“I was so miserable before. I was… wrong, man. It was all wrong.” Rust smiled with a worshipful kind of reverence, blue eyes sparkling with stoned wonder as his hands fell back down onto his stomach, “but now… it’s _right._ All of it, Marty. Ain’t that just amazing?”

Marty grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, man. It is.”

 

***

 

When they made love it was slow. Not like their early days of hard, fast, angry fucking, when they’d been cruel to each other and to themselves. Now, it was all about the slow sway of bodies, the gentle thrusting of hips, hands everywhere, content to explore and massage. And so much _kissing._ They kissed like they needed to, like they needed to remind themselves of how much they’d changed. Once, they’d refused to kiss. They’d turned away after the act was done, ashamed and angry and confused.

They didn’t need the weed to make sex good, but it helped. They weren’t getting any younger, after all– but the truth was that the need to impress had faded a long time ago. It was all about feeling good. All about the bliss of it, the pleasure that they knew they could feel. No shame. No regret.

They were so fucking happy.

 

***

 

Of course, they could hardly deny the past.

Which was why, when Marty woke up one morning to the sound of whimpering, he just closed his eyes in sad acceptance.

Nightmares. An unfortunate experience that they both routinely suffered– worsened, Marty was beginning to suspect, by the occasional lows they experienced when their supply of weed ran out. But, fuck, neither of them were drinking any more, and Marty would take marijuana over alcohol any day of the week.

Marty lay there and listened to Rust gasp and mutter, hating the periods of silence, inevitably broken by a hitched breath or a quiet whine. That silence, every time, tempted him into believing that the nightmare had ended. That Rust had moved onto another, better, dream. Peacefully and quietly.

That never happened.

Eventually, as always, Rust jerked awake with a sharp gasp, eyes flying open. Marty slowly sat up, propping himself up one elbow. He didn’t touch Rust, not yet, but offered him a concerned gaze and the dignity of patience.

“Shit,” Rust breathed, lifting both hands up to his face, rubbing at his eyes, “shit.”

Sensing that Rust now needed touch to ground him, Marty reached out a hand and rubbed his palm comfortingly across Rust’s sternum. “You wanna talk ‘bout it?”

Rust shook his head, both hands moving down to fold over Marty’s hand. His eyes were glistening with tears.

“Nah,” he smiled brokenly, “nah, I got all I need right here. I don’t need to talk ‘bout nothin’.”

Marty nodded in absolute understanding, leaning forward to softly press his lips against Rust’s mouth. They kissed gently, in moments like this. Carefully. They may have been living the dream, but they both knew what dreams could become if you didn’t treat them right. And they were both acutely aware of what the other needed, what should and should not be said. What should not be asked. Marty would not demand to know what horrors were painted on the insides of Rust’s eyelids. He would not expect to take what was not given freely.

Not that it mattered. Not when they’d experienced most of it together, and most of their ghosts were shared.

Marty felt one of Rust’s hands tighten around his, the other rising to press world-wearied fingers to Marty’s cheek. Marty moved, too, sliding his hand into the warm space between the pillow and Rust’s neck, cupping the smooth curve of his skin. He shifted towards Rust, drawing a knee up so he had ample leverage to arch his hips over Rust’s waist.

“Need a distraction?” he asked, his need to seek genuine consent masked by a playful grin and a light tone.

“Yeah,” Rust smiled against his mouth, gratefulness filling his voice with quiet affection, “think I might.”

 

***

 

Marty took his time.

He knew what Rust needed, and what he could handle while in this state. After his nightmares, Rust was vulnerable, and he needed to feel strong. He needed Marty to give him that power back. So, having realised this over time, Marty took it upon himself to be the receiver.

He prepared himself with his fingers, and a generous amount of lube. He wasn’t surprised when Rust took his wrist and stilled him, reaching between his thighs and looking up with hooded, lustful eyes.

“Let me,” he murmured, and Marty did. He lay on his back, allowed his eyes to slide closed as Rust’s fingers gently prepared him, as Rust’s mouth moved against his own, tongue lazy and warm. Their bodies were so familiar, so entwined. They didn’t speak all that much. Didn’t need to.

Eventually, as the morning weather was beginning to turn from comfortable to sweltering, Rust straightened up, placed one of his large hands on Marty’s stomach, and steadied himself.

“You ready?”

Oddly touched by the fact that Rust felt the need to ask at all, Marty opened his eyes and smiled lazily, nodding. Rust smiled back, strands of hair hanging about his face in loose curls. He slowly moved his hips forward, pressing inside Marty with as much gentleness as he could muster. After all the preparation, it barely hurt. Marty closed his eyes again, let out a quiet sigh. He could feel the light breeze through the open window, the waft of a curtain occasionally touching his arm. He could feel Rust’s hand, warm against his skin, fingers spread. He could feel Rust inside him, filling him up so perfectly. He wondered if this was heaven. If this was what people prayed for.

“You good, Marty?”

“Yeah,” Marty mumbled, “yeah, Rust. Love you.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, and it wouldn’t be the last. But still, there was an adoration in Rust’s voice when he quietly replied, “Love you too, Marty.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> written while listening to the following tracks on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack:  
> Misirlou, Bustin' Surfboards, Let's Stay Together, Son of a Preacher Man, You Never Can Tell, Flowers on the Wall, and Surf Rider.


End file.
